Picking Up Trash

by

Jenny L. Collins

The golf cart tracked through earth that raindrops hadn't touched for months, and grass long dead and yellowed. It was Mark's turn at the wheel and Abe walked alongside, loading the black plastic garbage bags from each oil drum they approached. The cart had been rebuilt for this service, with a large wooden box on the back to hold cans, bottles, garbage and whatever else was left behind at the concert campgrounds.

"Got a tarp here," called Abe.

"Condition?" That was Mark.

"Looks like it's all in one . . . no, scratch that. Big rip no amount of duct tape can mend."

The pair worked their way through the campgrounds picking up trash and looking for treasure. So far they had accumulated enough forgotten camping gear and clothing to open a small thrift store. It wasn't going to happen anytime soon, as the store on site had everything the camper might need and then some. Still, someday they wouldn't have to track through the dust of the high desert, in the heat of summer's scorching rays, chasing objects caught in the high winds coming off the gorge. Someday they wouldn't have to slave in these conditions picking up other people's garbage for barely enough to cover living expenses.

"Men's flannel shirt, double XL," called Abe.

"Condition?"

"Needs a wash."

Fans came from all directions, from hundreds of miles away, to see big name acts perform at the gorge. The outdoor amphitheatre sat on rocky cliffs over the Columbia River and the view was spectacular. Summer brought a natural light show in the night sky, with Old Sol waving his colorful cape behind him during his daily descent. He was first up in the morning and wasted no time climbing to his place at the top of the sky. He turned his fire up and turned the tents below into ovens so the campers he danced with the night before would join him in his wakefulness.

One by one, they would rise and proceed to the showers, to get coffee, to gather their belongings bit by bit and pack them away. They would yawn

and stretch and smile at their neighbors and say "Good morning" and "Great show," and their neighbors would smile back and say the same. Car by car they would pull out of the campgrounds onto the highway that led them to breakfast, long before the noon check-out, leaving nothing behind as they sped away but the dust clouds and whatever Mark and Abe could find.

"Ho, what's this?"

Abe was holding something white and examining it closely. Mark got out of the cart to get a look. It was a hunting knife with an ivory handle. An artist had scratched a tiny little scene onto the handle, and then filled the scratches with ink.

"Scrimshaw," answered Mark. The etching depicted an elk pausing to sniff the winter air before a mountaintop. Maybe he was getting a whiff of the hunters that were sure to be hiding in the wood nearby. It was a beautiful piece of work.

"And it's mine."

"No no no no no. You can't keep that!" protested Abe. "Someone is gonna be looking for that for sure!"

"Too late. It's mine now."

"Mark, that is so not cool. This has gotta mean something to somebody and you can't just keep it without giving them a chance to get it back."

"Okay, you have a point." Mark held the knife high and hollered to the empty field, "Does this belong to anybody? Anybody? Gotta cool knife here. Anybody want to claim it?" He turned back to Abe, who was laughing and shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, I gave them a chance. Now it's mine."

"Yeah? What if it was it was used to stab someone and then dumped here? Like that woman from Moses Lake ? How freaky would that be?"

"With those odds I could win the Lotto."

Abe continued shaking his head and walked back to the cart. "Karma's gonna get you for sure."

"Well, what goes around comes around," answered Mark, "and now it's my turn."

"Enough of this," said Abe. "I'm thirsty."

"You put the cart to bed and I'll get the sodas."

"Ding-a-ling!" The little bell above the store doorway announced Mark's entrance. Who was working today? The jumpy little blond wisp sipping coffee behind the counter was new, but Mark had spoken with her before. It was his priority to become acquainted with all young females employed at the gorge venue. This one had been wary of him, and no amount of charm would change it. Have another cup of nervous, thought Mark.

He gave a nod to a local deputy in front of the beverage cooler. The officer was fresh from traffic duty, making sure concert-goers left town at the posted speed and without troubling the locals. Twelve-ounce tins holding cold, thirst-quenching, bubbling goodness stood in colorful rows before them. The deputy selected a green can a shade or two darker than his uniform shirt and moved onto the baked goods. Mark chose red.

A new display of sunglasses near the counter caught Mark's eye, because the wares were priced at $9.99 plus tax. Since sunglasses were the first thing to get lost, stolen or sat upon, he couldn't see spending too much on them. Mark set the sodas on the counter and slowly spun the rack around. A pair of designer knock-offs intrigued him, promising to transform him into a rock star. He tried them on and was pleased with what he saw in the little mirror. The ladies will surely be impressed, he thought. The stupid tag that dangled from the bridge would have to go, though. Now. Mark pulled on the plastic link that held it, but it stood fast. He set the sunglasses down with the pop cans and opened the knife.

If a contest for startling outbursts were held, the loudest air siren would bow humbly out of respect to the shriek that emitted from the mousy girl's mouth. Mark turned toward her with a "Huh?"

The ear-piercing wail kept coming. Fingers that held Mousy Girl's cup let it drop to the floor with a crash and waved frantically near her ears. The brain-crumbling shriek wouldn't quit.

"Hold it right there!" shouted a voice to Mark's right. Both he and Mousy Girl froze in their tracks. The scream turned to whimpers.

"Put the knife on the counter and slowly back away," commanded the deputy. Mark obeyed. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

"You don't understand, officer," Mark protested, "She knows me."

"No, I don't," the girl objected, "I don't know you at all."

"Stay where you are." The deputy kept his gun pointed at Mark and picked up the knife. He took a close look at the scrimshaw. "Is this your knife?" he asked Mark.

"Yes. Officer, there must be a mistake. I work here on the grounds –"

"Did you find this knife here on the grounds?"

"No, it's mine. A gift from my uncle," he lied. Where was Abe? He knew where: in the shed with the golf cart, smoking a bowl of dope. He was no help.

The deputy looked at Mark carefully. The woman from Moses Lake had been robbed and stabbed the week before. The attacker had concealed his face, but she could describe his unusual knife in detail. The victim had examined it closely when he held it up to her face as he made threats. She recalled each characteristic and made sure the deputies understood before she died of her injuries.

"Are you sure this is your knife?" the deputy asked again.

"Yes!" Mark insisted. He had done nothing wrong.

"Come with me. We have some questions for you."

One hundred percent of the sun's ultraviolet rays were deflected off the Ray-bans on the face of the Grant County deputy sheriff. He watched his suspect closely, disgusted how such filth could be allowed to walk the earth. Soon, he was sure, the good citizens of George , Washington would be rid of this trash. The backup he had called for would be there shortly to give him a slap on the shoulder. It was a good morning, they would say. Great show.

END